Page 44 of Sinful Promise
Fletch spins, like a hound out to hunt, and pins Torres with a look. “What did the lab find?”
The other man falters under the heat of Fletch’s glare. “Uh… an odd starch polymer comprised of D-glucose units bonded by glycosi—”
“Stop.” My partner brings his hand up and rubs his temple. “Dumb it down, Torres. Jesus.”
“Er…” Like a man born to a different language, he works hard to find the right words. “The lab has identified traces of amylose and amylopectin. I believe these samples were pulled from the staircase railing.”
When the elevator doors open and I step in—with my heart in my throat and nerves making it hard to breathe—Torres follows and hits the button for the ninth floor.
With no other choice, Fletch steps in too, and stops with his shoulder pressed to mine. “I don’t know what those words mean,” he growls as the doors close. “Amylost and—” he shakes his head. “Chief Mayet usually gives this to us in plain English.”
“Cornstarch,” Torres blurts.
Just seconds after the doors close, they ding open again to reveal Minka and Aubree on the other side, waiting to enter and head somewhere else.
My feet seem bound to the floor, but Torres’ move just fine as he turns on his heels and walks backwards. “The lab found cornstarch. We’re not sure what it means yet, Detectives, as context is difficult to come by. But I’ll add the new findings to my report and send it over.”
“Coming or going?” Minka slaps her hand across the door sensors to keep them open, but her eyes bore into mine, suspicious and, well… a little scary. “Detective Malone?”
“Um…”Cornstarch? What the fuck does cornstarch have to do with anything?
“Coming.” Fletch steps out and strides toward Minka’s office. “Doctor Torres is good at his job,” he stops at the office door and holds it open, completely unaware of the tension rolling between Minka and me. “But he hasn’t learned the art of talking to non-science folks.” Casually, he looks to Aubree. “What would you assume is happening if you found cornstarch on a crime scene?”
“Uh…” Thinking, she turns from the elevator and follows him back into the glass-walled office. “Cooking? Cornstarch is a thickening agent, no? My mom uses it in gravy when she wants to make it thicker.”
“Why would there be cornstarch on Fentone’s crime scene?” I lower my voice to a barely-there growl and meet Minka’s stare. “What does that tie into?”
“Oh!” Aubree strides through the door. “We sometimes use cornstarch in our latex gloves. It’s to absorb sweat so we don’t slip with our tools. Also, people who are allergic to latex order the cornstarch gloves to create a barrier between skin and rubber.”
Gloves.Minka’sgloves!
“You’re not allergic to latex.”Be cool. Be calm. Be fucking casual.I step out of the elevator and grab my wife’s sleeve as we walk. “Peanuts,” I murmur, “yes. Latex, no.”
“Not allergic.” She pushes her office door open and tugs her arm from my hold. Striding to the other side of her desk, she’s the epitome of cool, calm, and collected as she lowers into her seat and crosses her legs. Finally, she smiles for Fletch when he turns our way. “Your killer could be a chef. Or have an allergy. Or maybe he works with rope, since cornstarch is used to lessen friction within a knot.”
“Really?” Loping across the office and dropping into the visitor chair, he looks Minka straight in the fucking eyes and smirks. “So, bedroom antics aside, if a man were to tie a few recreational knots that he’s struggling to untie…”
Aubree flops onto the leather couch and giggles. “You’re sick.”
Minka’s lips curl into a grin. “Cornstarch also absorbs oil and grease. So perhaps your killer is a mechanic or something like that. There are a million uses, Detective Fletcher. Why do you ask?”
He only shrugs. “Torres said they found some on scene. Right now, we have a knife that can’t be traced, a bullet without a gun to tie it to, a safehouse system that no one can track, a pedophile no one wanted alive anyway, and cornstarch.” With an exhale of frustration, he drops his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. “Which, according to you, has a million uses.”
Aubree mock-hisses loud enough to draw my partner’s eyes. “The vigilante wins this round. Does it sting?”
“Shut up.” Fletch swipes a pad of Post-Its from Minka’s desk and lobs them at Aubree so she squeals. “And I don’t know about this one being the vigilante. It’s different.”
“What?” Losing her composure, Minka sits forward to rest her arms on her desk. “What do you mean?”
“Well… the vigilante has always worked alone, right? And up to this point, they’ve always used a blade.”
“Well—”
“But with Fentone, we have the bullet too—which, according to Torres, was shotafterFentone was already dead.”
“After?” Grabbing the Post-Its and pushing up from the couch, Aubree wanders closer to perch her ass on her boss’ desk. “He was shot after he was already dead? Why?”
“I mean…” I see the way Fletch works the case through his mind. The way he searches desperately for the right direction to take our investigation. “He had targets on his back, right? Yes, everyone deserves to be safe, and he’ll get a thorough investigation and all that, but the fact is, he was running the gauntlet from the moment Detective Franklin released him from custody. You don’t get to rape and murder little girls, have it known publicly, and not cop a little heat over it. So vigilante or not, what if we have two separate attempted murders?” Thoughtful, he looks up to Minka. “Can we find out how long after death Fentone was shot?”
